A Midsummer Madness

by Guy Franks

  In many ways, these post-game get-togethers were the best part of being a manager. Shake loved them, loved the repartee, the camaraderie, the bullshit. At this table, on any night, one could hear pearls of wisdom, tall tales and hilarious stories. The post-mortem on the game-just-played always contained keen insights which only men who have dedicated their lives to a profession can provide. It was like listening to seasoned playwrights talk about the theatre. The wit was dry, the one-liners fast and furious, and the jokes tended to be bawdy if not downright lewd and crude (especially as the beer-buzz increased). For Shake, maybe it wasn’t the best part of managing but is was certainly the most fun.

  Orson had been invited into the inner sanctum and Shake kept his eye on him. The young man appeared to appreciate the compliment and listened quietly, occasionally asking a question or adding a stat if it was relevant, but mostly he sat and listened with a smile. Certain gestures and turns of a phrase caused Shake to wonder if he was gay, but since he didn’t care to find out one way or the other he left it as a passing thought.

  “How you boys doing?” asked the cocktail waitress. Her name tag said Bernice but everybody called her Bernie. She and Larry Benedict had dated at one time but it had gone bad, and now every time they confronted each other (which was usually when she came over to refill their orders) a lively banter ensued which bordered on trash talk. The others at ringside enjoyed it and waited for the bell to start the next round of boxing.

  Bernie

  Shake, another? And I should have said ‘men’, ‘how you men doing’. There’s only one boy at this table.

  Larry

  I’m surprised you noticed. This young man here is Orson Kent, UConn grad and owner’s son. He comes from money, which makes him young and rich. Just your combination. Come to think of it, you better watch out, Orson. She’ll sink her teeth into you.

  Bernie

  First off, the only boy here is you. Mentally about twelve years old I’d say. Second off, Orson, it’s a pleasure to meet you, but don’t listen to him—he’s a pervert and clinically insane. And don’t talk to me about sinking teeth into people, I still have the mark on my ass where you bit me.

  Teddy

  You bit her ass?

  Larry

  She’s fantasizing again. But I did kiss her ass once.

  Shake

  It that a metaphor?

  Larry

  No, really. It was dark and I thought it was her face.

  Bernie

  The only thing you ever mistook in the dark was a pencil for your penis.

  Larry

  God, there you go again, hitting below the belt. Why do women always go for the crotch? They’re like pit bulls that way. That’s why I’ll never get married. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life walking around the house with a cup on.

  Bernie

  The fact that you’ll never marry only brings joy to the women of the world. I can’t imagine being married to you. It’d be like hell and Bellevue and Captain Kangaroo all rolled into one.

  Larry

  Don’t imagine ’cause it’ll never happen. I’m a committed bachelor, like Shake here. The only way you’d get us to marry is by stringing us up by our toes. Even then I’d rather live without toes than wear a wedding ring.

  Bernie

  I’d least then you’d be good for something. We could sell your toes for lobster bait.

  Larry

  They use herring for lobster bait.

  Bernie

  Exactly. You’re one big red herring.

  Larry

  I’m sure that means something but I’m not sure what, so why don’t you, like an actual cock-tail waitress, go fetch us another pitcher of beer and stop talking to us about lobsters and kangaroos.

  Bernie

  You always want to shut it down when you’re losing… Ah, ah, don’t say it, don’t say it. I’ll get your beer. Shake, the same? Okay, except for him, don’t go away.

  Larry

  Turn around and show us your best feature. Bye, bye.

  Bernie spun around and put her hand behind her back and flipped Larry off as she walked away.

  “One of these days she’s going to pour a pitcher of beer over your head,” laughed Teddy.

  “That’d be more refreshing than all the crap that comes out of her mouth,” replied Larry.

  They had a good laugh at that and more. The topic changed to relief pitching, and over the next hour ranged from baseball to Mike Tyson to the growing ban on smoking. Rick and Teddy, who were both married, left around 1:00 along with Orson. Bob was divorced but living with a gal and hung in there until 1:30. Shake and Larry kept at it until Don yelled “Last call!” just before 2:00. Shake got up and stretched. He’d only had three drinks and felt fine. They had a bus to catch at eight in the morning. He looked around for Lucy but she was not in the bar. She’d come down an hour before and said hi to them, stood next to him and tickled his ear, then went back upstairs to “work on my taxes.” He was tempted for a moment to go upstairs and knock on her door but he thought better of it. They had a bus to catch at eight in the morning.

  Shake walked out onto the sidewalk and breathed in the cool, clean Connecticut night air. Three loud Harley Davidson motorcycles passed by and he did a double take at one of the passengers.

  “You see that?” he asked as Larry came up behind him.

  “See what?”

  “The guy on the back of the bike. It looked like Prince.”

  “Hank Prince? You sure?”

  Shake thought about it. He didn’t want it to be Hank. “No,” he said.

  “Seeing as it’s way past curfew and he’s on a motorcycle—a direct violation of his contract—let’s hope not. He’s not that stupid.”

  Shake rubbed his chin in thought and then said goodnight to Larry. He hoped so, too. He was too beat to think it a warning; they had a bus to catch in the morning.

  5

  CHAPTER

  This great stage of fools

  King Lear

  After a six game road trip, the New Britain Kingsmen stood at 7 and 2 and atop the Eastern League. In Pittsfield they lost opening day, got rained-out on Saturday, and swept a double header on Sunday. In Nashua they took two out of three from the Pirates and might have swept them if Hank Prince hadn’t been picked off third in the ninth inning of the second game. 7 and 2 was nothing to sneeze at but Shake knew that ending up first in the regular season didn’t amount to much. There were eight teams in the Eastern League and four of them made the play-offs. In a three out of five play-off format any team could get hot and win the league.

  Their archrivals the New Haven Admirals were due in town Friday for a three game series, but today was Thursday, an off-day, which wasn’t really an off-day because players and coaches were obligated to attend the yearly Lyon picnic. It was tradition and happened the middle of every April at the Lyon Estate in Avon, Connecticut. Everyone in the organization was expected to attend along with their wives or girlfriends. The press and local dignitaries were invited and all together over a hundred people attended the shindig. Shake enjoyed it. So did most of the players. There was great food, lots of booze, and a live band that went until midnight.

  The tables were laid out under large canopies across the vast, rolling lawn that surrounded the castle-like estate. On years it rained, the party was moved indoors to the great hall, but it was sunny today and the mansion looked as though it was locked up. Shake found that a bit strange until he remembered what Corey had told him about Rex’s tax problems. He wasn’t sure if there was a connection there or not. The food and booze were as good as ever, the fanfare the same, but there was one other odd thing: the pool was drained. Every year it was full and open for business and kids and grown-ups could swim in it all day. He asked one of the bartenders what was with the pool and got the reply, “M
rs. Cornwall had it drained.”

  Mrs. Cornwall was Rae Cornwall, Rex’s oldest daughter. He had two daughters and no sons. Rae was from a previous marriage that ended in divorce and Corey was from his second marriage. Between the two there was no comparison. Shake found Corey to be a sweetheart while he found Rae to be—well, Larry called her a “certified bitch on wheels”—and maybe that wasn’t too far off. She and her husband Ed lived in the mansion with Rex. And now, according to Corey, the house was in her name. So was his company. Shake knew that since last year, Ed Cornwall pretty much ran Lyon Bolt Manufactory, which three months ago announced a big lay-off. This all reeked of money problems and Shake suddenly felt very sorry for Rex. Timon of Athens came to his mind:

  For bounty, that makes gods, does still mar men.

  My dearest lord, bless’d, to be most accursed,

  Rich, only to be wretched, thy great fortunes

  Are made thy chief afflictions.

  “Lost in thought?” asked Rick.

  Shake stood by the drained pool, drink in hand, looking up at the locked mansion. “Huh?… Yeah,” he replied. “She drained the pool.”

  “I heard. Linda and the kids are bummed. Also heard Rex and her got into a big row over it and she threatened to cancel the picnic. She hates ’em.”

  “Always knew that,” commented Shake. They strolled back towards the bandstand. Rick Burton was Shake’s best friend. They had met in the minor leagues and hit it off even though they were opposites in many ways. Shake was an infielder, Rick an outfielder; Shake was a committed bachelor, Rick a dedicated family man; and Rick, despite Shake’s efforts, preferred Louis L’Amour to the saintly Bard. Plus the taller Rick had a full head of hair that Shake secretly envied. But despite these differences, Shake saw in Rick a keen baseball mind that was matched with a kind heart and a guardian’s soul. Shake knew that Rick had his back, and there was no better thing you could say about a friend than that.

  “I was talking to Orson the other day,” said Rick. “He’s dialed in to ownership and all that finance stuff, and he says she wants to sell the team.”

  “What?” exclaimed Shake. He stopped and looked around. “Why? The team’s making money. We’ve got the best attendance in the league.”

  “She can make more by selling it. Orson says there’s a renaissance going on in minor league baseball and the price tag for ball clubs has gone sky high, even Single-A. He’s says they could get a million for the Kingsmen, easy. The big thing now is consortiums backed by movie stars like Bill Murray. It’s a trendy investment.

  “Yeah, I’ve heard all that, but I don’t see Rex selling. It’s still his ball club… Plus I’m a shareholder,” he added with a whimsical smile (cause he knew better).

  “Right,” said Rick, smiling back. “If they want to sell, they’ll sell. You won’t get out of the way of that beanball.”

  “I still don’t see Rex selling.”

  “You’re probably right. The old man loves it too much. She’ll have to wait until he steps aside or kicks the bucket.”

  Shake dreaded the thought.

  Orson had a problem. He was bewitched and bewildered. He couldn’t lie to himself about it any longer—he was infatuated. Crushes could be a problem if the other person didn’t feel the same way, but his problem was bigger than that. The object of his infatuation was another man.

  He had dated girls in high school and college—normal stuff—but when it came to sex there was something missing. He’d gone to bed with three women and each time he was left feeling as though something key was missing. It was more a letdown—like stroking a fourteen foot putt for par only to have it come up an inch short from the cup. And they had felt it too because each time, after having sex, they had let the relationship fizzle out on its own. It was a bedeviling concern. Was he gay? How did a person know if they were gay or not? Was it like being born left-handed versus right handed, and even if you were left-handed and your dad tried to make you right-handed were you still, in the end, left-handed? He’d been attracted to men before, usually athletes who exemplified the male form (like Michael Jordan), but he chalked it up to a Greek-like admiration. But now it was more than that, he was sure of it. What he felt for Balt Porter was love.

  He first saw the journalism student in the clubhouse and he was immediately smitten by him. Balt had delicate features for a man, along with thick brown hair, and though he wasn’t an athlete, he carried himself like one with a certain gracefulness. Orson had to admit that Balt was even a little effeminate which confused him even more. But that really wasn’t the problem. The real problem was twofold: if he was gay, he would have to confront that truth. He knew gay people—some of them even lived openly about it—but being gay was not a thing that would go over well with his father or family. Not at all. The second problem was more immediate and sat across the table from him. How did he get Balt to love him back?

  Orson had introduced himself to Balt a couple weeks ago and shaken his hand, which turned out to be soft like a writer’s hand. He now saw Balt sitting with the media people—albeit aloof, head down studying his notebook—and Orson came over and re-introduced himself. He had an ice-breaker. He was a recent grad and Balt was a junior at CCSU, so he quickly started in on the “college experience.” As they talked, he noticed Balt was fidgety and slightly distracted as though he had somewhere else to go.

  “Late for an appointment?” he finally asked Balt.

  “No… Well, yes,” replied Balt in his soft-spoken voice. “I do have to leave soon.”

  “Balt, what’s that, short for Balthazar, right?”

  “Right, and you’re named after who… Orson Bean?”

  “No. Orson Welles. My dad’s good friends with him.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, he’s also good friends with Arnold Palmer but luckily he didn’t name me Arnie.”

  “Arnold Palmer?”

  “Yeah, the golfer.”

  “I know who Arnold Palmer is. Ninety-two tournament wins. He said ‘What other people may find in poetry or art museums, I find in the flight of a good drive.’ I love that quote.”

  “You play golf?”

  “Occasionally… When I have time.”

  “We should get together for a round. They got a good one there off Hartford Road. Stanley Golf Course.”

  “Maybe… I’ll have to get back to you on that. Got a busy schedule right now.”

  “Sure. Understood.”

  There was a moment of awkward silence and Orson’s mind raced to quickly fill the gap. But Balt filled it for him: “Orson for Orson Welles… Could be worse. You could be named Shakespeare.”

  They both laughed at that and Orson’s heart skipped a beat when he heard Balt’s beautiful laugh. He boldly stared into Balt’s brown eyes which were obscured by those godawful black-rimmed glasses. Orson wanted to reach over and gently take those glasses off him but he restrained himself and just kept staring. Suddenly Balt looked away and Orson caught (what? could it be?) a slight reddening in his cheeks. The man was blushing.

  What did that mean, wondered Orson. If he was a woman and blushed like that Orson would have thought there was a connection between the two of them, but who knows. Maybe Balt was embarrassed by his staring. How did someone find these things out? It wasn’t like being in a foreign country; you couldn’t go around asking everyone you met if they spoke English until you found someone who did. This was dangerous territory. Subtlety was required. One had to rely on minimal cues. Was the blush a minimal cue? He wasn’t sure.

  “I got to get going,” said Balt gathering up his notebook.

  Orson was crestfallen. He was obviously wrong about the blush. “Oh… Okay,” he replied lamely.

  “But I was thinking,” added Balt as he stood up, “I’d like to get some insight into ownership and the financial side. Maybe you’d grant me an interview?

&
nbsp; Hope burst anew in Orson’s chest. “I’d love it,” he said. “Anytime. We can talk about ownership, the big club, money, whatever. Maybe over dinner. I think you’d gain a lot of insight.” He caught himself. He was talking too fast so he slowed down. “Anyhow… Let me know… Give me a call.”

  “That’d be fine,” said Balt. “How do I reach you?”

  “I’m at the ballpark, of course. But if you want to set something up ahead of time just give me a call… Here.” Orson fumbled for a pen and wrote his number down on a paper napkin. “I have an apartment in New Britski. There’s my number.” He handed the napkin over. Instead of shoving it in his pants pocket, Balt folded it neatly and put it in his shirt pocket.

  “Appreciate it.”

  No problem. See you then.” And Orson watched as Balt walked away. He had baggy pants and walked with exaggerated long strides which only endeared him more to Orson.

  “Yeah,” thought Orson with a wry smile. “I’ve got a big problem.”

  Three pitchers sat together at a table shooting the bull. They were kicking back. Empty beer bottles cluttered the table in front of them and they talked baseball, gossiped, and commented on the local fare. The local fare consisted of young, single, attractive women who always seemed to flock to these events looking (if the truth be told) for handsome pro ball-players who might someday become millionaires. Chuck Davis was married and his wife was on the dance floor with Phil Cappadona’s girlfriend. Phil was a relief pitcher, a submariner with a nasty fastball. The third pitcher was the Kingsmens’ second starter Luis Santiago. Luis came with a date but she had left in a huff after he hit on another woman in front of her.

  “See Basset’s girlfriend?” asked Phil. “Knockout.”

  “Looks like a model,” agreed Chuck.